


Same Here

by Paint Me a Symphony (youngerdrgrey)



Series: 1000 Theme Challenge [12]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode: s05e10 Let Them Eat Cake, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-22
Updated: 2009-02-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngerdrgrey/pseuds/Paint%20Me%20a%20Symphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cuddy's had enough of House. It's time for her to leave, but before she can do that, there's a question she needs the answer to.<br/>(Picks up after 5x10)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. History Repeats Itself

**Author's Note:**

> (#353 of the 1000 Theme Challenge, "History Repeats Itself")

A wise person once said that "to know one's past is to know the future". Lisa Cuddy seemed to have missed that lecture, for she somehow ends up in the same position she was in years earlier.

Her head rests on the familiar desk in a notch that could only be formed by chipping away at the edge out of boredom. Her frustrated sighs linger in the air, taking just enough time to allow her lungs to fill again before evaporating. Her thoughts churn together, centering solely on the topic for so many other internal debates.

Gregory House.

Why did she fall into his trap back then? And, why does she still do it? How can it be that after everything that man has put her through, over the years, she is just as keen to dive into him head first? He has always been the exact same. He has not changed at all since last she was in this situation. She had thought she was the one to grow up and mature. She was then, and is still, wrong.

James Wilson stands in the doorway of her office. He watches her with silent eyes. He looks for the tell that always comes with House related drama. It's this little quirk she does every time he is the source of a problem. Wilson always waits until he finds it to speak, but he isn't seeing it. Not even after waiting for twenty minutes outside her office.

"The longer you wait won't give you a better topic," she mutters. His face flushes. He never considered the option that she knew he was there.

He steps into the room cautiously.

"I was waiting for something," he says, she looks up at him.

"For what?" she asks.

"A sign, that maybe this conversation won't have to do with you and House, or maybe that it would," he answers.

"There is no conversation, Wilson. He's House. I should have known better," she recites.

"I'm just curious as to what happened in the time from when you left this office, gleeful, to you returning, confused," he says.

"Not confused, irritated," she corrects.

"At House?" he supplies.

"Myself. This isn't the first time this has happened," she admits.

"What has?" he questions curiously.

"Me trying, him failing, him doing something un-remarkably sweet, only to be found in the arms of another woman moments later," she clarifies, "The only thing is, this time we don't have twenty years to fix the damage. Hell, between his drug habit and the psychotic patients that walk through those doors, we probably don't even have ten."

Wilson moves awkwardly to the seat in front of her new desk. He gazes on, waiting for her to continue her train of thought.

"This isn't the life I wanted for myself," she adds, "Not at all. I always wanted the modern lifestyle. The white picket fence, fancy job, cute kids, husband - the whole shebang. And, what do I get? A hospital that can't function without me running in circles all day, a job that is amazing with good benefits but insane hours, no family, no husband, and feelings for a man who will never understand."

Wilson nods slowly. He knows where this is coming from.

"This whole House-Joy situation isn't making things any easier," Wilson tacks on.

"It was never meant to. I was just looking for a way to have a piece of that falling dream. I know I can't, now," she says sullenly.

"Why can't you? The husband thing isn't fully out of this world," Wilson tries, she gives him a look, "Unless of course, you have a certain guy in mind. A certain guy who will, uh, never understand?"

She gives a humorless chuckle.

"Way to go, James. You finally got one right," she praises sardonically, "Although, it would be ideal if it wasn't. Correct, I mean. He is a horrible choice, definitely not husband material. Not even boyfriend material. He is incapable of acting his age, or considering other people's feelings. And, his private displays of compassion and personal knowledge aren't ever enough to make up for all the other crap he does on a daily basis.

"I-I should have known better than to trust him, or hire him, or lo…"

Wilson leans forward. He only needs to hear her say it once. A simple admittance of what they all know has been there for way too long, before Kutner and Thirteen, before Cameron and Chase, even before Wilson and Stacy; a pure, unconventional love.

"I… think I should probably call it a night," Lisa says. Wilson groans.

"You aren't calling it a night. You need to go talk to him. Go talk to the man you love," orders Wilson defiantly.

"James," Lisa mumbles warningly.

"Don't 'James' me, Lisa! For years I have been dealing with the two of you, and I don't want to wait until the next time he dies, or your hopes get slashed like tires, just to see even a bit of improvement. You are worse than newborn puppies who won't separate from their mothers for anything. You two can't let go of your own damn problems and just accept the other one. He isn't going to change. Neither are you. Get over it, and do something, damnit. Because, if you don't make that step now, you won't get the chance," Wilson warns.

"I've never had a chance. The only one to ever get one was Stacy. She blew it," Lisa deadpans.

"Who's to say you will though?" Wilson stresses.

"The same man who says that 'everybody lies'," Lisa says. Wilson sighs. The stubbornness of brunettes has reared its ugly head. There will be no getting through to her now. And, just when he had gotten so much done, kicked straight back to the starting line.

"Fine, don't try. You're going to regret this for the rest of your life, you know that, don't you?" he asks her seriously.

"I know," she admits forlorn. He shakes his head at her.

He pushes back his chair in defeat. Maybe he should just get a new hobby. Huddy-matchmaker doesn't seem to be working out so well.

"Do you want to know what happened next, Wilson?" she asks loudly. He turns to her.

"Sure, why not?"

"He winds up in the hospital for an overdose, and everything else fades to black," she says.

"Ever think of maybe writing a new future?" he asks.

"What's the point? The last overdose led to him solving a case. The one before that found him his own department. And, the one before that eventually got him and Stacy together. Obviously, there's a pattern here."

"Drugs make his life better, then worse?"

"They all happened without my intervention, with me in my world and him in his. It's the way things are meant to be."

"The way they're meant to be, or the way things are easier?" he demands.

"Both," she replies.

"You can't stay out of his life," Wilson points out.

"I can if I leave the hospital," she says, "I got an offer for a position at a hospital in Florida. I'm going to take it."

"Did you run from him in the past, too?"

Lisa smiles.

"How do you think I ended up here?" she asks rhetorically, "The history always repeats itself."

"It doesn't have to," Wilson practically pleads.

"Yes, it does, James. I'm sorry," she says.

"So am I."

She looks up, and their gazes meet. He sees it then. She's waving the white flag, giving up on not only House, but everything. He doesn't know if he can imagine a Lisa Cuddy without dreams. Or, maybe he just doesn't want to.

If this happened in the past, Wilson only wants to know two things. How does he just let it all go, and how the hell he can bring it all back again. Now that he thinks about it, his answer is most likely waiting for him in a little trip down memory lane with the other side of this deadly coin. It's a good thing Wilson always loved social studies.


	2. Would You Miss Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (#970 of 1000 Theme Challenge, "Would You Miss Me")

"Would you miss me?"

The question is so abrupt, so out of the blue, that it takes House aback for a moment. He pauses in his wavering steps and glances over at Lisa. She had kept walking causing her to be a few feet in front of him. He cannot see her expression. Her body language clues him in enough to figure out what it is though. He begins moving again, limping faster to even out with her pace where she is.

"Depends. Do I get a show when you get back from wherever you're going?" he questions. He watches her face from the corner of his eye. She does not grin.

A sickening thought comes to him. He frowns, wondering if this question could possibly be un-hypothetical. If it's serious, she must be considering leaving. She must be so through with the hospital, so frustrated and drawn out that she needs a break from Princeton, from PPTH… from him. This disgusting feeling settles in his stomach, seeking refuge in a place barren of anything else. He makes a note to find Wilson after this. Maybe a sandwich could ease the harsh vibes within him. Then again, maybe a Vicodin could do the same thing.

His hand is halfway in his pocket when she clears her throat uneasily.

"I, uh, won't be coming back," she confesses.

He freezes once more, this one much less noticeable. He plays it off, slipping into another seemingly curious question.

"What are we talking about here when you say 'won't be coming back'? Is that an 'I'll be gone for so long you'll forget I was even here', or a 'I'm fed up with my life and I'm moving away from it in hopes of escaping'?" House asks.

Lisa bows her head. Her dark, chocolate curls fall from her shoulders, naturally framing her face. He almost wishes he were shorter so that he could see the conflicted look she no doubt holds.

"We're talking about me moving. I found myself another job, a new place. I'm moving on the thirty-first," she tells him.

He notes, shocked, "Cuddy, that's seven days from now."

"Brilliant observation," she mutters.

He isn't sure how deep into her thoughts she is, so he throws out something sure to bring her back.

"The whole foster parent-adoption thing will take more than a week," he mentions.

She nearly smirks at him, jumping into an explanation.

"Not necessarily. I become her foster parent tomorrow. Five days they let me run free. On the fifth day, they take her in for observation, and she also has a check-in at the hospital. I will have my furniture sent to my new place, and go pick up the keys that day. Then, I return back here to finalize the sale of my house and pick up Roxanne," she gives him a small, sad grin, "I'm out of New Jersey, permanently, by the new year."

House finds himself unable to look at her any longer. The amount of time and thought she must have put into the plans scares him a bit too much for his liking. They mark what he thought would never happen. She's Cuddy. She is not supposed to leave. Not again. It took him forever to find her the last time she disappeared. He does not want to go through that again.

He stares down at his shoes. He puts extra focus in the way it stays together, the way it works. An idea comes to him.

"Cuddy, let's think of this hospital as my shoe," House declares, he tries not to laugh when she groans hearing the beginning of one of his infamous metaphors, "Now, you are like the laces of these gorgeous, sixty-seven dollar beauties. Without you, the shoe falls apart."

"No, it just falls off your foot," she argues.

He frowns at her.

"You're missing the point here. The lace has to be there; ie.  _you_  have to be here. Yet, you're leaving and being replaced by a shoelace I'm sure won't be as attractive as the ones I found at Hot Topic last week. Obviously, someone came by and snipped at the aglets,"

He pauses for a second to ponder that. Her silence eggs him forward.

"And the naughty, little five-year-old messing with the bowtie is obviously someone I know, someone that you don't want to mention for fear that I'll find you even more pathetic than I already do for your little Rimsky-Korsakov move over here. Would you care to share with me who tied my ends together during nap time?" he concludes patronizingly.

Lisa rolls her eyes, turning to him. She crosses her arms directly below her bust. He forces his gaze not to stray from her oddly complacent face.

"I think you switched metaphors somewhere in there," she deflects, "Either way, you might want to rephrase that. It almost sounded like you cared why I was leaving."

"Of course I care!" he roars instantly.

"But not enough to miss me when I leave," she accuses lightly and bitterly. He hears it, and smirks.

"Who said I wouldn't miss you?" he asks. He notices a slight grin slither onto her face.

"You'd miss me?" she croaks out in disbelief. He knows the tone she is using well. It is one he hears every time he does, or days, something that doesn't fit in with the image of him she carries around inside her mind. Of course she believes he is incapable of actually missing someone. If only she knew just how much he missed her the last time she left him. Fifteen years he looked for her, all the while burying himself as much as he could into his career. And, then, he stumbled right into her hospital after golf one day, right back into her life the same way he entered it before. If what he felt the last time is anything to go by, simply missing her does not even begin to cover what he will feel. He can't let her know that, though. So, he tries to claw out of his little hole of truth.

"Yeah. Who else would let me do experimental treatments and exploratory brain surgery on a monthly basis?" he jokes. He pretends not to see the pain that flashes in her eyes as she turns back to the pristine hallway beneath their feet.

"My temporary replacement will probably let you," she mentions downcast, "It's Wilson."

"Wilson?" he repeats, "You've leaving Wilson in charge of the hospital? You might as well put Cameron up there!"

She chuckles a bit.

" I figured I'd choose someone attune to dealing with you almost as much as I am," she explains.

"Wilson will be a crappy Dean of Medicine," House states, "And an even worse administrator. He'll screw up all the parking spaces and everything."

She quirks an eyebrow, hands going to her hips.

"Are you saying that your best friend can't handle my job? I thought it was 'not real doctor work'," she quotes.

"It isn't. But only certain people can handle not being a doctor and keeping control at the same time. People like you," he adds.

She looks up at his face again, and he finds himself staring into those same blue eyes that he always does. Her emotions are so clearly laid out for him. Everything she's thinking sits right there for him to read. He wonders if his show the same things. The same confliction and resignation, pain and longing, trust and reluctance, better not be in his. He would hate for her to know that much.

The stare is dropped. She smirks just a bit.

"I would like to thank you, House. You've been a good friend through my time here. We've known each other for over twenty years. It's been fun. Goodbye, House," she finishes.

And she does not hold out her hand for him to shake, or drag hers down his arm in a parting gesture. She does not hand him a letter, or hold boxes filled with mementos. She simply claps her arms to her sides, takes him in a moment longer, and slips into her car. He looks at the door as it closes. Truthfully, he had not even noticed them reach it.

He pats the top of her car absentmindedly. She puts the car in reverse, backing out slowly from the parking space right across from the hospital doors. For a split second, right before she peels out of there, blue eyes meet one more time. It is brief, and not nearly the amount of contact he craves in that second. Sadly, he has no hold over her anymore. She drives away.

He slowly turns, spotting the new temporary Dean at the sliding doors. Wilson's face shows only sympathy and a certain realization that assures House that his friend has been watching them longer than the diagnostician would like. He sighs, teetering over to the man.

"You've got some big shoes to fill," House mumbles, "Don't screw it up."

Just like that, House goes back into the building. His hand is in his pocket, fingering the bottle of pills. It is only once he is in his office that he recognizes the pain for what it is. Something inside him tells him that it is one even Vicodin can't fix.


	3. Hey Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuddy asks House a question one day. He doesn't quite know how to answer it. Later, he reflects on two words that never solve anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (#345 of 1000 Theme Challenge, "Hey Baby")

He does not know exactly how he got there. He only knows that he is there, sitting in the darkness that winter nights bring, with his startling blue eyes burning brightly in contrast with the surroundings. The room is warm. But, he still feels cold.

With a sigh, he flips the switch directly above his left hand. A small glow drifts in, basking the small form wrapped in pink blankets. It moves over, blinking droopily. The little girl stares up at him. He notices, nostalgically, that her eyes are blue too. Sadly, they're not the right shade. Not the ones he wants to be looking at, even though they should be. He has to settle for this, though. It is the closest thing to contact he can have right now.

It occurs to him that he seems almost stalkerish now, towering above the small child, with every fact about her engrained in his memory. Her name -- Roxanne Elizabeth -- is encrusted on the plate waiting by her tiny feet. He doesn't need to glance at it once, nor does he need to look at the records sitting in her lap. The records tell him plenty of things. They tell him that her birth mother just died of eclampsia, and that she is almost a month old. They inform him of the fact that she is nearly five pounds now -- four pounds, nine ounces. What they don't tell him, though, is the one thing that interests him.

Where on Earth is she going? Because it isn't back to the house he's broken into way too many times, or the crack home she was found in. Where she's going is going to be nice and cozy with a mother who will love her and give her the world on silver, bacteria and pesticide free platter.

House has never been one to cave into the idiotic whims of talking to those who won't respond. He does not talk to goldfish, or little dogs on the street. The closest thing to that being his short, rhetorical comments to his good buddy Coma-Guy. So, his shock comes understandably when he has the undeniable urge to speak.

He begins in an almost condescending tone, asking, "Do you know how lucky you are, kid? Of course you don't; you're an infant. Well, you  _are_  lucky. Lucky to be alive, to be adopted… to be with her…. You're not going to rot away in the foster care system, alone and hating the world because you never got a chance to know real love at a young age. And, you're not going to grow up in a home with an abusive dictator breathing down your neck about every little mistake. No, you're going to thrive with a single mother, doing everything to take care of your ungrateful teenage self. If anyone ever tries to hurt you, even a bit, she's going to rescue you, and take care of you'll be ready to strangle yourself in hopes of getting out of her loving and overbearing embrace."

He chuckles breathily, and goes on.

"You're going to hate her sometimes. You're going to want to run away and never come back because she's not conventional in any way. She's going to make you come back though. She won't have to track you down, or call the cops either. One night away and you'll be rushing back into your unlocked bedroom window to get that warm breakfast of whatever vegan crap she's trying to shove down your throat. You're going to be spoiled rotten. And, she's going to expect you to be brilliant. Don't worry, though, she'll love you even if you aren't. You're probably gonna grow up with men flittering in and out of your life. I'm telling you right now, don't let them stay. Chase them all away. Wear strange vests and be ridiculously sensitive if you have to. Google Alison Cameron if you need an example of how to get rid of the good guys. Beware, you might have some weird Australian people coming after you if you copy her."

House takes in the small body of the girl. He reconsiders instantly, practically envisioning what he's thinking before he says it.

"You should be like your mom," he decides, "You should work like her, talk like her, treat people the way she does. Don't dress like her though. You'll get too much attention that she will not want to explain to you, and will probably fail at anyway. That's another thing to Google when you get older, sex. Do not let her explain it to you, unless of course you're interested in long-winded speeches and possible medical text.

"Maybe one day, if I'm a good boy, and you're a good girl, we'll meet each other. You won't be wearing diapers, and Foreman will probably have taken over my department by then. I'll give you a speech that you'll take in just as much as you do now. Then, I'll ask you a simple question. 'How's your mom?' I'll ask. And, you better answer me with a 'she's fine', or they'll be hell to pay. Don't let me ask more, or I'll never get enough. Don't let me get away without asking you either, or I'll punch myself in the face until the day I die over it.

"You know, kid, you're a pretty good listener. How about I tell you something I haven't told anyone else? You can't go spreading it around, or I'll have to take your nose," he threatens jokily. Roxanne simply blinks blankly at him, holding out her arms. He reaches down, listening her slowly from the hospital crib. She moves a bit before keeping her eyes trained on him. He adjusts himself as well.

He begins, "Back in Michigan, in college, I knew this woman. She was gorgeous, and funny, and really knew how to make a guy happy. I decided that this woman would have to be mine. I wanted her, and not just in the way I'm not supposed to tell you about. After a bit of prodding, I convinced her to go out with me. We started seeing each other after that, and one day she made the dreaded mistake that women in relationships always do. She said three words that made me get scared, made me freak out a bit. I know, the great Greg House doesn't get frightened, but, damn, I've never heard a more terrifying concept than those stupid eight letters. Well, I backed away from her for a while, then I went and carved a message into the desk in her little alcove. It was eight letters too. But, I didn't see her again… not for fifteen years."

He swallows back the traitorous tears in his eyes.

"I talked to the woman in the story a few days ago. She asked me a question, and I couldn't come up with a good answer. I started rambling and made a real ass of myself. In the end, she told me goodbye. But, I don't want to say goodbye," he whispers. He looks at the little girl, "And, I don't think I ever will."

The child reaches up, placing a small hand on his chest. He will later swear that it never happened, but a few tears slipped at that.

The silence in the room is so deafening, so strong and powerful with his confession that the small sound from the absent weight against the door echoes loudly. House turns around to see Robert Chase, guiltily, standing at the door.

House carefully puts Roxanne back into the crib then. He rises from his seat, limping to the door. Chase steps aside. He goes out of the room. It is not until he's at the elevator that he hears the Aussie's voice again.

"House," Chase calls, the man in question peers over his shoulder at him, "What did you write on the desk?"

House's head snaps back forward. He steps into the elevator with his gaze firmly on his shoes. As the doors are closing, he looks to Chase and says the two words that have haunted him ever since he first put them down.

"Same here."


	4. Don't Run Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (#213 of 1000 Theme Challenge, "Don't Runaway")

Of all the things Lisa Cuddy feels grateful for, she finds her need to organize at the very top of the list. Most days it can be a little tedious, but on days like this one - those days when she can no longer take the solidity of her home - it is that simple trait that leads to her finding the box where it sits.

She knows well where it is and what is inside it. She knows the story of every single item, and remembers the texture of them all even now. Still, she cannot resist taking it out every now and again and flipping through it.

Today is one of those days.

Lisa sits atop her bed, box in her lap, hands barely grazing the sides as she tries to talk herself out of looking inside. As always, she fails, and her hands then grab hold of the first thing in the box. She smiles, affectionately; his band T-shirt. Only one was ever made, and she still remembers the day she got a hold of it.

 

* * *

_Her feet felt like anchors, weighing down every single step she took up the towering staircase. Her hands were like the chains tied to it, for every time her feet dragged, her hands dropped just a bit lower down her body. And, her head would just have to be the water swimming around the damn anchor, just to complete the metaphor, and to acquaint the spinning sensation with something a bit more familiar She was certain, in that moment, that she just could not do this anymore._

 

_"Come on, Lise!" roared the booming voice of her boyfriend, Greg. She paused in her steps, and looked up uneasily. He was at least three flights above her, yet they had started right next to each other. She just didn't understand how he could move so fast._

_"Greg, I need a break," she yelled back. His groan that followed echoed through the empty space much longer than necessary._

_"Lisa, you don't have time for a break. It's either you move on your own, or I carry you. And, you don't want me to carry you in your skirt, now do you?" he threatened. Her gaze wandered to the skirt on her legs. It hadn't seemed like too bad of an idea for her to wear it. Until, of course, she met up with the terror that was Greg House, and found out that she would be climbing the stairs of one of the highest buildings on campus._

_"It'll only be a little one," she tried._

_"A small break to you, and a small break to me are two very different things. Both of which would cause us to be late. Come on, the roof at dawn, don't you want to be there? What could be more romantic than that?" he asked._

_"Somewhere that doesn't involve seventeen flights of stairs and a ridiculously long drop?" she suggested._

_"Okay, let's make a deal, then. If you keep going, I'll give you any one thing of mine that you want. Anything," he offered._

_"Does that include your closet?" she wondered. He looked at his watch before nodding hurriedly._

_"Yes, yes, it does. Come on, the sun is due to peek out any minute," he urged. She rolled her eyes at him, placing the heels she had long since removed in her other palm._

_"I want the shirt you wore during your first on-campus concert," she told him. His eyes bulged._

_"Lisa, that's a one-of-a-kind shirt of_ my _band," he said._

_She shrugged, informing him, "It's the shirt, or I turn around."_

_He paused in consideration, but she didn't sweat it. She knew he would chose the former sooner or later._

_He sighed, clapping his hands together loudly._

_"Alright, alright," he agreed, she smiled, "Now, come on, we're only a few more away."_

_She then rushed up to the landing where he was, and took the remaining stairs as quickly as she could. They made it outside and sat down. Together, they watched the sunrise over Michigan._

 

* * *

Lisa carefully places the shirt down next to the box. She reaches inside, pulling out the next item. She nearly laughs when she sees the small brown paper bag. She doesn't need to flip it over to understand why it's there, nor does she need to close her eyes to see the lights of the Ferris wheel dancing before her.

 

 

* * *

_His hand was in hers again. She couldn't exactly say she had a problem with it. She never could say she had a problem with anything he did. And, she supposed, that was the problem._

 

_He was always a gentleman that Greg House. Maybe not with everyone (okay, definitely not with everyone), but he always was around her. He pulled out her chair at restaurants, settled for small pecks in front of the public, and never once eluded to sex once they started dating. He was definitely the perfect boyfriend. And, she also supposed, that was why she felt so nervous._

_Now, when Lisa Cuddy got nervous, she began to take in every detail around her, over analyzing everything. What was normally just a simple gesture became a warning sign for something that was likely never to come. Take holding hands for example. She didn't so much care about holding it, but she could not stop thinking about why she was holding it. Was his hand cold? Was he trying to be sweet? Or, was he just staking a claim to her like she was his possession? She could not decide._

_"Let's ride the Ferris Wheel," he said. Then, that hand in hers was pulling her away, far away towards the biggest thing at the fair. She decided then that it was just a way to trick her into injuring herself. Yes, that had to be it. He wanted to hurt her. The damn doctor in him needed something to fix. It all made sense to her. Really, it did. So much sense that she pulled her wrist away from his quickly._

_He quirked an eyebrow at her, but said nothing. He kept marching forward. She followed behind him twitchily. They got to the Ferris Wheel, and sat down in their cart. The second it lifted from the ground, he reached for her hand again. She pulled it away. He frowned then._

_"What'd I do wrong?" he asked. She couldn't answer him without sounding like an idiot._

_"No, seriously, what did I do? Did I piss you off, or something?" he inquired. She sighed._

_"No, I just…. You're different than I thought you would be," she confessed, "I expected you to be kind of rugged and tough. You're actually a really good date, a perfect gentleman."_

_"Don't let it get out, or my rep is ruined," he interrupted._

_"Greg," she chided for butting in, "Look, I kind of started worrying for a second, okay? I thought maybe you were just being nice to cover up something."_

_"Oh, but I am," he informed her._

_"You are?"_

_"Yup. It's a dark secret that I've been working really hard to hide from you," he said, "You see, Lise, I… I… I think you're a babe, and I am dying to have sex with you."_

_She laughed._

_"That's a secret?" she checked._

_"I thought it was. I just can't help but wanting to bring you back to my dorm tonight and have my wicked way with you. But, I heard you were into the gentleman type and figured I'd give you what you wanted, in hopes of getting what I wanted fairly soon," he admitted._

_"So, the nice guy routine was to get in my pants," she repeated slowly._

_"Yeah," he agreed. She nodded._

_"Okay, then," she commented._

_"Wait, did you just say 'okay'?"_

_"Yeah, we can do it tonight if you want. It's the tenth date, and, truthfully, I'm kind of surprised you lasted this long," she said._

_"You're not the only one," he said. She smiled, "Lise, close your eyes."_

_She did as he asked, and leaned forward, expecting one of the kisses she loved so much. Instead, she felt a slight weight in her lap, as if something was there. She looked down, quickly, spotting a brown paper bag designated for vomit sitting there. She turned to him, confused._

_"Next time you freak out, use the bag," he declared._

_She scoffed, slapping his arm for the jest._

 

* * *

She chuckles at the memory. She places the bag on top of the shirt. She is in the process of getting the next thing when she notices something sticking out on the side of her box. She picks up the foreign item curiously. From the look of it, she can tell it is about as old as the rest of the things. Her name is scrawled across the front of the letter. She opens it slowly, and peels the slightly crumpled paper from the envelope. There are a lot of lines through words, spots where it seems like the writer grew too pissed to even attempt to make sure the normal stuff was even legible anymore. But, she can make it out, having had tons of practice reading things written by this specific person.

 

She clears her throat, reading, "' _Dear Lisa,_

_"'I don't know why I'm exactly writing to you. And, I'm not sure when you'll get this, if ever. But, I'm still going to write it down because Jimmy won't shut up until I do. I don't really know how you exactly format a letter like this, so, I'm just gonna write stuff down, and you're gonna read it. I'm mostly going to be writing about feelings. Yeah, that's right, the F-word._

_"'Feelings aren't just one thing, as I'm sure your hormone research has told you. There's a bunch of emotions there, like hatred, anger, resentment, misery, melancholy, sadness, heartache, and those are just the ones I've been feeling since you disappeared. You left me, Lise. And, I don't like that. Not one bit. I can't. I mean, I don't. Damn. This seemed like a better idea before I actually put the pen to the paper. But, I guess you're into this sappy shit, anyway. This probably has you all teary-eyed and shit. Uh, sorry, that word probably killed it, didn't it? Okay, well, basically, this was to say that I miss you. I really miss you. It's been too long since I saw you last, and I feel like an addict going through withdrawal. I need you to know that I wasn't joking around for seven months, Lisa. Not even the great Greg House could keep something funny for that long. I wanted to be in that thing we had, and I figure you did too. We're Greg and Lisa, House and Cuddy. One day, we'll rule the world, babe. That if, you'll ever talk to me again. I'm guessing you never looked at the desk again. Because, if you did, you would have figured it out, and had you figured it out, you would have known that I… love… you.'"_

A gasp escapes her, and she stops reading abruptly. Could he actually? Or is it a 'did he'?

"Why'd you stop?" asks a voice from behind her. She swivels around just to make sure she is not imagining it.

She isn't.

"How did you get in here?" she shrieks.

"I used the key under the flower pot. I've been telling you to move it for years," he says as if that fact would excuse him practically breaking in.

"And, I've been telling you to stop using it for years. You can't just barge into my place, House. No matter what stupid things you're putting inside my room," she reprimands.

"That letter isn't stupid," he defends.

"It's barely legible," she says.

"You know good and well you can read it anyway," he rebuts, "Besides, I didn't want you to read that side. I wanted you to read the other side."

"Why should I read it?" she asks.

"It answers some questions," he says.

"Why don't you just answer the questions yourself?" she inquires.

"That would entail saying some things out loud, so, I'm going to go with the Wilson-method," he informs.

"Then I don't want to hear it," she stubbornly decides, putting the letter down on her bed.

"You know you want to hear it, just flip the paper over and read it," he orders.

"I won't do it. Why can't you just say it?" she questions.

"Because I don't want to damnit! I'm a grown man and if I don't want to do something, I won't do it."

"Well, I'm a grown woman, and the same thing goes for me."

"You're a stubborn bitch, you know that?" he checks.

"Yeah, that's the way to get people to do what you want," she sarcastically comments, "Call them a bitch."

"Just flip it over," he commands.

"What's so important?" she demands back.

The two stay quiet for a moment, each waiting to see who will break. Lisa has long since stoned herself, and isn't planning on letting that falter any time soon.

"It's another note," he finally says, defeated, "It was written last night. You were supposed to read it, and then I'd swoop in and play the charming knight card and you'd be putty in my hands instead of the little brat's."

"Rachel isn't a brat," Lisa injects.

"I know, Lise. I know. I just…. Didn't you notice the desk?" he deflects, "I put it in your office, and you never mentioned it."

"I figured you didn't really want me to," she confesses.

"Well, I did. You were supposed to come rushing to meet me and realize that I had basically said it in my own words once again," he says.

"Said what?" she asks.

"Eight letters that when put together make a dangerous combination," he replies.

"Like 'I love you'?" she presses.

"Really? Well, same here, Cuddles," he announces with a smile. She frowns, having fallen into a trap.

"Wait, I didn't say it though," she denies.

"I believe you did, just like last time, you said 'em first!" he gleefully shares.

"But, I was merely filling in the blanks," she declares.

"Too bad, I win. And, I said it, basically. Now, call up Mister Mover and tell him you aren't going anywhere."

"But, I am," she says, and his entire face falls, "I'm not going to change my plans just because you said two words. Now, if you said three words, accompanied with the actual meaning behind it, maybe I'd stay."

"Please don't go," he carelessly supplies, she shakes her head, "We need you," she again disapproves, "I'm not going to say it, Cuddy. It took over an hour for me to write it on that piece of paper."

"You've got a while. My flight doesn't leave until tomorrow morning," she says. He sighs. And, then, very softly, she hears it.

"Don't leave me," he whispers, he looks up into her blue irises and says it again, louder, "Don't leave me. Don't run away. Don't back down. Don't give up. Don't do this. Don't leave me."

And, to all that, she can only think of two words to say, two words that'll probably haunt her just as much as 'same here' haunts him.

"I won't."

 

* * *

  
_Dear Cuddy, you asked me if I would miss you a week ago. You asked me if I wanted you two years ago. You asked me if I loved you over twenty years ago. Well, the answer to all of these is yes. I mean, if I wouldn't miss you, I wouldn't have tried to talk you out of leaving with that bad shoe metaphor. If I didn't want you, I wouldn't make as many comments about the way you look to get you all riled up and tense. And, if I didn't love you, I wouldn't have written those stupid eight letters on that damn desk in your office. Cuddy -- Lisa -- I know I've never really been the best guy to be around, and I do drugs, and I turn patient care into a game, and I will never, ever surrender to the evils of clinic duty, but I do know that I won't be able to do half those things the same way if you're in Florida, or New York, or even at Princeton General. Probably because I'd have to follow you, and with my bad leg it'd be a bad idea for me to be running after taxi cabs, don't you think? So, why don't we skip that part and just get to the part where I say the magic three words and have you leap into my arms, sappily, and giddily, okay? Don't run away._  

_Okay, that was kind of your cue. I'm hoping you know what to do by now._

_\- Greg_


End file.
